Well, to answer everyone’s burning question. The man was not a prophet. Josh and I were absolutely floored awhile ago when we found out we were pregnant. Then, we realized the strangeness of it’s connection to the crazy prophet/flirt man when we were told the baby’s due date was early March. But, as is to be expected with my history, I started miscarrying yesterday.
Before I get lots of comments about feeling so sad, just know that, while I feel twinges of sadness, I pretty much got all of that out yesterday. Today I’m different, except for my blubbering calls to family this morning. I’ve actually had some interesting thoughts about this whole deal.
First thought is that, if you add up all of the time I’ve been pregnant from all past pregnancies, you figure out that I’ve been pregnant for about 42 weeks. That’s enough that I should have a child by now. I’ve had hope in my heart for having a child so long that it adds up to a full pregnancy. And I have no baby, no war story about child birth, no feelings of baby kicking… all that stuff. It’s weird, kind of surreal to think about.
Next, it still sucks to tell people that your fourth hope to carry on your terrific family genes has failed. We got smart on this pregnancy and only told our immediate family & pastor. I was going to tell some friends of mine, but got stopped short before that could happen. I have informed all of the above people about the miscarriage and only have one person left to tell. The cool lady that makes my coffee in the morning. Here’s how she found out I was pregnant:Me: Yeah, I’ll take a double-tall iced aztec…decaf.Cool Coffee Lady: Okay…wait. Decaf?Me: Yeah. Decaf. *nods toward cool coffee lady*Cool Coffee Lady: Decaf. YOU want DE-caf.Me: Yes.Cool Coffee Lady: *looks disturbed, she’s looking me up and down in confusion* My “quad in the morning” wants a decaf.Me: Yes.Cool Coffee Lady: *looks at me very suspiciously then a lightbulb goes on, and she whispers while patting her belly…* You’re pregnant.
So, now, I get to go back to the coffee shop and order regular coffee. As soon as I order it, she’ll know. I have it all played out in my mind already. Then I’ll be done telling people.
Last (for now), I’ve had to face the idea of prayer head on. When you have nine-kajillion faithful servants of the Lord petitioning Him on your behalf for this child to live, and he still chooses a different path, you learn the meaning of disbelief. Not that I’ve lost faith in the Lord over this, but that you find out something like this and you can’t help but stop and look at God and go, “What are you doing?” I don’t want to hear any of the lovely, pat, Christian arguments about God’s will or God’s plan for me and God knowing better and all that. It just makes me stop and go — What is the POINT of prayer? I’ve read everything C.S. Lewis has to say on the topic. I’ve studied Jesus’ purpose for prayer. I’ve relied on prayer heavily to get me through both good and bad times in my life. I know all the Christian-ey anwers.
I guess I just felt like the Lord would bless me on this one. Felt that maybe I deserved it. Felt the weight of the joy it would bring so many people, and felt the pressure of how many people would be crushed by the news of this baby dying. So, why wouldn’t the Lord bless it? And why wouldn’t he hear our prayers? And why wouldn’t he grant the desires of our heart? Perhaps C.S. Lewis’ character was right in Shadowlands when he said that the purpose of prayer was because it changes the person who is praying. I pray because it changes me? Maybe. I’m not fully satisified with that answer yet.
Yesterday, when I realized what was going on, I was home alone. I walked into my living room and collapsed on the floor sobbing. I spread out on my back and shouted out to God. I asked Him what he was doing. If this was a joke. If He was satisfied with my pain yet. Then I thought of Job and wondered if I was being tested, to see if I would still praise Him. I said, “Of course I will praise you. I will ALWAYS praise you because I don’t know how NOT to!”
And, as usual with this God-conversation, I yielded, knowing that He knows more than me and would not allow pain to come to me without very good reasons.
It was a very satisfying prayer, I think, because it was a conversation. I don’t pray so that I can be changed. Everything in life changes me, so I feel that giving prayer that definition whittles it down too much. I pray so that I can enter in. I pray so that I can enter the Holy of Holies and speak with my Father face-to-face. That’s why Christ died, that’s why the veil tore. So that I could fall onto my floor and scream why. So that I could look upon my God with disbelief in how He has willed my life. And so that, through that exchange, I could find some amount of peace leaning against His throne.